The Little Things
by SpyKid18
Summary: It's the little things that get him. Booth/Brennan


**A/N: Hello! This is just another little one-shot. Enjoy.**

The Little Things

It's the little things that get him.

It's the way she works, her eyebrows furrowed as she pores over a femur or tibula. Her manner of speaking, logical to a fault. The way her hair curls gently at the ends.

All of these things are precisely why he loves her.

It's more than just physical attributes, though, ones that she does not lack. It's even more than a general feeling. What he feels for her is all encompassing, so absolute that he cannot imagine any time when he had not felt the room change when she walked in.

Sometimes, he wonders if he always had.

Now, sitting with her at a local diner, their feet nearly touching under the table, he realizes just how far deep he is. Every little thing interests him from the way she sips her tea to the unnecessary attention she pays the waitress while she prattles on about the daily special.

"I'll just have a salad, dressing on the side," she says after the waitress' long-winded explanations.

"And you?" The waitress asks.

He wants to say that he will take the woman in front of him, but instead says, "A burger with fries."

The waitress nods and the moment she leaves the table, the devious angel before him tosses off, "Red meat kills."

"So does lack of protein Ms. 'salad with the dressing on the side'." Her lips purse into the frown that he knows so well and she tells him with a quick shake of her head, "You don't die from a lack of protein, Booth. You may be weakened by it, your body will not function at its optimal level, but you won't die." She pauses for a moment and adds, "I eat more than salads, too."

"I know, you eat all of my food."

"Think of it this way," she offers. "You are an FBI Officer and it is part of your job to stay fit. Every time I take some of your food, I am helping fend off obesity."

"I am in no way close to being obese," he argues.

"Exactly my point."

"I run five miles every morning, Bones. That is why I am fit."

Her eyebrows work up into a deeper arch as she asks, "You really run five miles every morning?"

He senses her interest and with a with a surge of masculine pride he tells her, "Yup, every morning, Bones. That is how you keep a physique like mine."

"Impressive," she concedes, "Although, men are naturally athletic."

"Are you trying to sell me short, Bones?"

She leans forward and tells him, "No, it is simply an anthropological observation. Historically speaking, men are the providers and protectors of families. In the earliest sense they had to hunt and track the food. Naturally, this would cause men to develop more athletic tendencies."

Her logic is sound and systematic and he drinks it in like water. He wants to drive her farther, push for more, because the logic and her are inextricably linked and he feels he witnesses the purest view of her as she spouts off the anthropological mumbo jumbo that more often that not goes directly over his head. Still, though, she's beautiful when she's saying it. Hell, she's always beautiful.

He must have blanked out because she waves her hand in front of his face while saying, "Hey, are you listening?"

"Sorry, I'm back," he mumbles, shooting her the smile that he had only recently admitted to himself was exclusively hers. He almost thinks he sees something flash in her eyes, then. It is this slight change, so quick that if he hadn't been looking at that exact moment, he would have missed it.

"You've been kind of out of it lately," she says after a moment. "You know that you can tell me anything, right? We don't keep secrets."

"I thought I was an open book to you," he teases.

Her voice is serious as she says, "Not anymore, Booth."

Caught in the way her blue eyes are set into her milky skin, he feels the pull of the now familiar internal struggle. And he almost succumbs. He nearly breaks down and says it.

Three words.

Eight letters.

It is so small and yet so significant. It would be so easy to say it, but the aftermath is more difficult.

He thinks of Cam lying in a hospital bed with sallow skin and eyes that he feared would never open. It had been difficult seeing her there, but he knows that it would have been pure torture if it had been his partner.

Worse yet, if she rejected him. Their vibrant friendship reduced to stilted pleasantries and inane chitchat. He wouldn't be able to bear it.

She is still looking at him with those eyes that are searching his face, trying to find the answer that she desperately wants, but then the waitress comes and those same eyes sweep toward her. The moment passed and while he is grateful, he can't help but feel disappointed.

Food in front of them, she eyes his fries and he leans back, opening his arms as he says, "Just do it."

She reaches forward but then pulls back. Her eyes meeting his again, she tells him, "No, I am not going to eat your food anymore."

"Why not?"

"Because something is off with you."

"Well, nothing is off with my food," he says. "Take one, otherwise you'll keep looking at it."

"So, my eating your food has nothing to do with your strange behavior?"

"My behavior is not strange, Bones."

She smirks and as he sees a retort form on her tongue he says, "You have two seconds to grab a fry."

Her eyes light up and she plucks a fry from his plate. And just like that, the vision of her blue eyes flashing, he is putty in her hand. If she only knew the power that she had over him. If she only knew that with one turn of her head he would do anything she asked.

Well, if she knew it would change everything. And as she would say, men are resistant to change.

Therefore, he lets himself be pulled along by the toss of her hair and curve of her collarbone, but he never lets her know. He feeds his irrational fascination with everything that is Temperance Brennan.

Because he knows.

It's the little things that get him.

**A/N: Please review! Your feedback is very important to me :-)**


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